Tea or Coffee?
by 8moonflower8
Summary: AU. Arthur is single, bored, and stuck in a job he hates with useless colleagues *cough* Gilbert and Mathias. Until he ends up on a date with a certain Frenchman. A lot of other pairings. M for langauge and later chapters.
1. 1 Beer

I couldn't get to sleep last night, and decided some FrUK was the way forward. There's probably a few typos, feel free to point them out.

Just a lil warning, there will be a load of swearing, and a load of man love. But I imagine you already guessed that ahahaa.

...

The light was nearly gone.

This lack of natural daylight meant Arthur could no longer see what he was writing. With a sigh worthy of a Shakespearian epic, he moved from his desk to switch the light on. He stretched, feeling a muscle in his shoulder pop. May as well get another coffee while he was up.

Now, let's get one thing straight: Arthur was a tea drinker. First thing he did when he woke up – made himself a cuppa. If he was having some kind of family crisis, or if there was a good film on Channel Four, or if it was a little bit chilly, he'd head straight for the teabags. Therefore it may surprise you to learn he also had a weakness for coffee. Not a serious one, mind. It just made him feel more businesslike; professional. Like he could become the mind-blowingly brilliant writer he knew he was – if he could just get something published. And then there was the smell. There was just something about the smell of coffee beans and second hand books...

Five minutes later he was back at his desk, too-bright light bulb buzzing slightly above his head. The library was his favourite room of the house. Alright, 'library' may have been pushing it a little. More like a study really. There was a single large bookshelf, packed full of his favourites: his old Shakespeares and Chaucers from university, covered in his untidy (despite his best efforts) notes, his Isherwood for when then there was no one else to sit and share a cup of tea with, his Amis and McEwan, Nabokov and Hemingway, Dante and Beowulf (both practically falling apart) and, for when he really wanted to ignore the real world, Harry Potter. His other books were stored in various convenient spots about the house – under the coffee table, on top of his wardrobe, the floor. Whatever. If there was a flat surface, there was probably a book on it.

Kindles could go fuck themselves.

He tried to focus on the empty notebook page in front of him, tried to drag some words up from the grey and foggy depths of his brain and smear them on to the paper, but it didn't work. It stayed empty. Bastard.

Twenty minutes later, the page was still empty, and so was his coffee mug. But there were days like this every now and again. He'd get over it. Besides, he had to meet up with some work colleagues in less than an hour. Things at the office had not gone well this week; there was only so much effort he could put into a job he intensely disliked. His heart was not in the architecture company he worked for. Being an architect was nowhere near as interesting he had imagined; not cathedrals and mansions, but more frequently plans for council housing and extensions to dental surgeries.

The words would wait.

...x...

"S'up Eyebrows?" Gilbert grinned at his colleague the moment he stepped into the building.

Arthur said nothing, but briefly showed the other his middle finger as he took off his coat. They had originally planned they meet at the office, but somehow Gilbert's suggestion of the pub had seemed like a much better idea. The pub was warmer, and had squishy chairs. And beer.

"Don't be like that Arthur," Mathias spoke up, "It's a mark of respect. Shows he cares. He doesn't even bother to insult me anymore, do ya Gilbo?"

"Damn straight. So, what the fuck am I doing spending my Friday night with you two?"

Mathias punched him playfully on the arm, perhaps a little harder than necessary. "'Cos you know you we're the best you can get, dickhead."

The light buzz of conversation covered their conversation a little, but several customers still looked over to their table in disapproval at Mathias' insult.

"Why do you two wankers always have to use such fucking atrocious language?" Arthur said, digging his wallet out from his pocket.

"Pot, kettle, black."

"You know why we're here. It's because you," Arthur pointed dramatically to Gilbert, "Can't meet deadlines."

"Yeah Gilb – "

"And you," he turned to Mathias, "are too busy pratting about with that effing boyfriend of yours to get any work done."

"I..." Mathias hesitated, "He's not my boyfriend."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Fine. You two want a drink?"

"Of course."

"Yep. The usual."

Ripping open the Velcro of his wallet, Arthur went to the bar. "Just one. Then we need to finish this bloody presentation."

...x...

An hour later, any notes they had managed to make concerning their presentation were covered in beer and rather ugly-looking naked women Gilbert had drawn.

"For fuckssake Gil," said Arthur, slamming his beer down on the table, "We can't fucking call our presentation 'How we are going to build a hospital so goddamn awesome people will throw themselves down stairs on purpose just to be able to visit.'"

Gilbert seemed hurt. "Why not?"

"Cos it's shit."

"Well, what do you wanna call it?"

"I... I don't know."

"Great." Mathias stood up, knocking over his chair. "We have a title. More drink to celebrate?"

"Hells yeah!"

"Sure."

Mathias bought them each another beer, although the barman had looked somewhat reluctant to serve him. By the time their glasses were half empty, all thoughts of concrete blocks, wheelchair ramps, and the cost of shatter-proof glass had been completely banished from their minds.

"So Eyebrows, written your best seller yet?"

Arthur sniffed. "It's getting there. And don't call me that, you tosspot."

"Pfft, you're a sucky liar."

"And you're a twat, but I don't say anything."

Mathias sniggered at Gilbert's expression of mock hurt. "Wow Arthur. You seriously need to get some."

Said man frowned. "Some what?"

"Some sex." Gilbert said evenly, flicking hair from his forehead. "Or at least someone to crawl up your ass and get that stick out for you."

Arthur gave the pair of them the best glare he could muster with too much alcohol pumping through his system. "Just because you two think sex is above food and shelter on the 'list of things we need to survive,' it doesn't mean we all feel that way." He took a sip from his drink. "Idiots."

"I think we touched a nerve," Mathias whispered loudly to Gilbert.

Before Arthur could retaliate, Mathias had stood up, knocking his poor abused chair over once more. "Well," he clapped his hand on Gilbert's shoulder, "I got to get going. The last bus is in five minutes."

"OK, cool." Gilbert finished his drink. "Oh, wait a sec, I forgot. Me and Lud are having people over tomorrow night."

"'Having people over?' What are you, married?"

Gilbert ignored him. "You two'll come yeah?"

"Will you have beer?"

"Will we have beer?" Gilbert made his best offended face. "Have you never met me and my bro before? Of course there'll be beer you arschloch."

"Gilbert, your German is showing." Arthur smirked.

"Whatever, but you're coming yeah?"

Intense light shone through the thick pub windows as the bus pulled up at the stop outside.

"Shit. I gotta get that." Mathias tugged on his coat. "Yeah I'll be there. See ya tomorrow." He flashed a grin before wrenching the door open, letting in a rush of cold night air.

"I s'pose I should get to bed too." Gilbert raised one of his eyebrows and his lips twitched in a quick smile. A look Arthur both dreaded and anticipated. "You coming?"

...x...

Gilbert gasped and flung out his arm, knocking his alarm clock to the floor. Arthur jumped and detached his lips from his friend's. "For fuck's sake Gilbert," he hissed, "be a bit bloody quieter would you? I could do without your brother barging in here again."

"He's out," said Gilbert simply, and pulled Arthur back down for another kiss. Their lips were dry, their breath warm and bitter from the alcohol; a taste that made Arthur feel sick in the mornings, but at that point he could think of nothing more enticing. The two ran their hands over each other roughly, all pinching and nails, a small gasp as one touched the other somewhere particularly sensitive.

All was familiar. All was safe.

Their movements got slower, their kisses less enthusiastic as the alcohol and the long week of work began to get the better of them. Eventually, they stopped altogether, their quick pants became slow, even breaths as they eased into sleep.

This was by no means the first time Arthur had drunkenly tumbled into Gilbert's bed. And, at the time, he wouldn't have believed it would be the last.

...

So, there we go.

Some spontaneous PrusUK there. I have no idea where that came from. There will be some Francis next chapter, I promise.

I should also mention I know precious little about architects and what they do.

Mathias is Denmark, btw.

Hetalia doesn't belong to me.


	2. 2 Hot Chocolate For One

Arthur woke to dogs barking and a door slamming shut. So Gilbert's brother was home then. He'd rather not run into him if he could help it – Ludwig seemed to think Arthur encouraged his brother's binge drinking and lax work ethic. If anything, it was the other way around. Besides, the last time Ludwig had seen Arthur, the latter's mouth had been firmly attached to Gilbert's cock, and neither of them cared to relive that meeting.

As the dogs quietened down, Arthur felt a slight headache nudging at his temples. It could have been worse, but it was bad enough for him to know the day would be a write-off. He raised his head from the questionable smelling pillow to look at Gilbert. He was sprawled on his front, taking up more of the bed than was polite, small patch of drool forming where his face was pressed to the bed.

"Gilbert." Arthur gave his bedmate an unceremonious dig in the ribs. "Your brother's home."

"Fuck off Ludwig, it's Saturday." Gilbert mumbled into his pillow and yanked the blanket over his head. Arthur fought the urge to jump on the bastard, just for kicks.

"Fine. I'm going home."

He sat up to gauge the extent of his headache, and in the process realised he was fully clothed.

Good.

At least things hadn't gotten any further than a heavy snog session this time. That made things significantly less awkward. The shirt Gilbert had been wearing last night was scrunched up on the murky carpet. This caused Arthur to wince a little – as much as he loathed to admit it, he was always the first to start the clothes-removal process; something Gilbert was never too quick to point out. And laugh at. Bastard.

Patting down his pockets, Arthur established he still had his phone and wallet. Always a plus. With one last disdainful glance at his sometimes friend, sometimes fuck-buddy, Arthur began to ninja his way downstairs. Thanks to Ludwig's anally retentive attitude to home maintenance, there were no creaking doors or floorboards to beware of. There was one worrying moment when Arthur thought Ludwig had heard him and started shouting, but it turned out he was reprimanding one of the dogs for leaving muddy paw prints on the kitchen floor. Eventually he managed to leave the house undetected.

Or so he thought.

Ludwig knew perfectly well Arthur had stayed the night; nobody else would have stuck a biro scribbled note saying "Bugger off, Gilbert and I are shagging," on Gilbert's bedroom door. But, like Arthur, the younger German wished to avoid a confrontation.

...X...

After making himself some coffee and (only slightly burnt) toast, Arthur wedged himself between the cushions of his much loved sofa. Granted, some patches of the dark blue fabric were so faded they appeared grey, and the cushions were squishy and out of shape, but it was the best hangover sofa in the world. And after precisely three minutes of flicking through television channels, Arthur remembered why he hated daytime TV.

He flung the remote across the room, and picked up one of his numerous notebooks. He was a complete whore for stationary. He couldn't help it, there were so many to choose form: A4, A5, A6, wide ruled, narrowed ruled, no lines at all, white paper, cream paper, blue paper, leather bound, ring bound, plain cover, patterned cover, shiny cover, plastic cover, fabric cover, all begging for him to fill them up with his words. As a result, he ended up with nearly as many notebooks as novels on his shelves.

After scribbling away for about an hour, he had come up with nothing better than a thinly veiled account of his relationship with Gilbert: a girl who slept around with her friends, and sometimes strangers, to make up for her lack of an actual lover, a spider with so many flies in her web. He flipped the book shut in agitation. It was the sort of thing written over and over again and sold two for five pounds on supermarket shelves to bored housewives.

He hadn't loved anyone for nearly three years.

Of course, he sort of loved Gilbert and Mathias in their own stupid little ways, but nothing that would merit writing about. How the hell was he supposed to write about real human emotions if he didn't feel any himself?

His last relationship... it had ended friendly enough, but it still pissed him off when he thought about it. And he certainly did not want to write about it. They still kept in touch; every month or so he would get a cheery phone call or e-mail from his ex, giving details about his happy little home life, his current partner, their list of pets that was slowly getting longer, and the romantic trips they were planning to take together.

Load of bollocks in Arthur's opinion.

But there was a tiny little part of him that craved that existence too, and no amount of alcohol or angsty literature could squash it.

Eventually, he gave up the battle with himself, made a huge cup of hot chocolate, and pulled a Hugh Grant film from his DVD pile. What, everyone needed a little romance now and then, OK?

...

Sorry, I know I said there would be some Franny this chapter, but it turned out longer than I wanted, so I split it in two. It's kind of a filler I guess. He is definitely in the next one, up maybe later today if I pull my finger out.

Ta for reading!

Again, Hetalia don't belong to me.


	3. 3 Jagerbombs

When the time came for Arthur to leave for Gilbert's, he had established he was in a generally pissy mood and wished for an evening free from human contact. But he had also established he quite wanted a drink (NOT tea or coffee) and the Beilschmidt brothers were more than adequate at supplying alcohol where it was needed.

So as he knocked on the front door of the house he had made such an effort to escape that morning, his thoughts were not on the inevitable awkward "We made out again last night" looks he would exchange with Gilbert, and more along the lines of "I really hope he bothered to put the beer in the fridge this time."

It was Ludwig who answered the door to him, blank expression giving no hint he knew of his brother's latest night time escapade with the Englishman.

"Arthur." He nodded. "Come in."

And Arthur did, grateful for the fact that Ludwig believed in keeping the house well heated to ensure the comfort of their guests. It was bloody freezing outside.

"Thanks."

He gave the large but cosy living room a quick once over. It smelt a little like pine disinfectant, alcohol, and the strange mixed up smell you get when a lot of people who are all wearing different aftershaves gather in one room. Apparently Mathias wasn't there yet. Ludwig had returned to the armchair in the corner, were a man Arthur presumed was his boyfriend proceeded to climb into his lap. Gilbert constantly complained about Ludwig's kind of ditzy, pasta-cooking, kitty-petting boyfriend, but Arthur knew Gilbert well enough to guess it was only because Gil wanted to fuck him too. He watched the Italian's hurt expression as Ludwig turned down the wine he offered him. Then the brilliant smile as Ludwig noticed his hurt and accepted; careful to hide his grimace as the wine slid down his throat.

At their feet was a large purple floor cushion, on which sat a small Japanese man fiddling with an iPhone. Gilbert was on the sofa, recounting a no doubt thrilling tale to the others seated around him, gesticulating wildly, nearly flinging his drink everywhere.

"...and then I took them anyway, just to see the look on his face! He's such an arrogant twat, it's like he's asking for it. There was this other time I..."

Arthur stopped listening. He'd heard that particular story a million times before. Nearby in another armchair was a blonde with his hair in a ponytail, glass of red in his hand and an easy smile on his face. Next to Gil on the sofa was a dark-haired man who Arthur felt he had met some where before...? Said man was grinning like an idiot as he listened to Gilbert's ramblings, but Arthur thought his smile was more likely caused by the fact the sour-faced man next to him was letting him hold his hand.

"Arthur!" Gilbert stood up noticing his friends' arrival. "Knew you'd be late. Get caught up in your writery shit?"

Arthur gave him the withering look he reserved only for Gilbert's stupid remarks. "Quite. Although I'd like to point out Mathias isn't here yet either."

"Ja, he texted, said he's running late or some shit." He shook his head. "I know you'll bitch at me if I don't introduce you to everyone, so listen good, I'm only doing this once." He cleared his throat. "That over there trying to get his hand in my brother's pants is Feli, and the guy on the phone is Kiku." The man on the cushion nodded politely. "These are two of my old friends from school. Francis," the blonde raised his glass, "and Antonio." The dark haired man somehow managed to smile even wider. "And the guy who looks like he wants to punch Toni in the face is his boy toy Lovino. He's Feli's brother too, just to confuse the fuck out of everyone even more." It was almost like their facial expressions were connected; the more Toni smiled, the more Lovino frowned.

"Charmed. Now if you'll excuse me, I need a drink."

Gilbert just laughed and launched back into his story as Arthur walked across the living room.

The kitchen was spotless. Arthur had to admire the fact Ludwig managed to keep the house in a habitable state at all, with Gilbert living under its roof. He helped himself to the drinks on the side; a shot of something clear with a label he couldn't understand. He knew full well he couldn't make any decent conversation with those in the other room until he'd had a couple of drinks. He was terribly uncomfortable with people he'd never met before, although he'd die before letting any of them know that.

The shot left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, so he pulled open the fridge to get a beer. As the door swung shut, he noticed a small square note stuck to it with a magnet.

~ We need more tomatoes! Love Feli ~

As he traced the loopy handwriting with his finger, Arthur thought back to his lonely afternoon, and how his empty house would have felt so much fuller if there had been a note for him stuck to his fridge.

His wallowing was cut short as loud laughter and shouted greetings echoed from the living room. Seconds later, Mathias blustered into the kitchen, bringing him with his a waft of frosty air from outside.

"Arthur!" He grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "How's it going?"

"Fine thank you." He sniffed. "You're late."

"Yeah, got held up, nothing important." He pulled a beer for himself from the fridge. "Hey," his grin became conspiratorial, "You see Lud with that guy on his lap?"

"His partner I believe. Yes, what of it?"

"Never seen the bastard look so happy!"

"What the fuck are you talking about? There was no expression on his face at all."

"Exactly! He's always got that little frown going on across his forehead. You throw a little Italian guy across his lap and bam! No more frown.

"You idiot, I think there's rather more to it than – "

"Jäger time!" Gilbert burst in, waving a dark bottle in their faces.

"What the bloody hell are you on about?"

"Jägerbombs, my dear friend."

Arthur mentally facepalmed. "We're not fucking students Gil."

"Arthur, we all know you're gunna have one anyway, so stop bitching." Mathias started digging through cupboards. "Got any energy drink Gil?"

"Yeah, to your left." Gilbert poured the liqueur into three shot glasses, as Mathias poured three glasses of energy drink. Arthur wrinkled his nose. Next to brie cheese, energy drink was Arthur's least favourite thing to put in his mouth. "OK, Gilbert announced, slamming the bottle down, "on three. One, two, three!" They each dropped their shot into one of the glasses, and downed it as quickly as possible.

...X...

An hour or so later, Arthur found himself on the sofa next to the wine drinking blonde, his head spinning a little more than he would have liked.

"Hello." He said sticking out his hand. "I'm Arthur."

"Bonsoir." The other replied, relaxed smile still on his lips as he took Arthur's hand. "Francis."

"Oh. You're French."

"Oui. But I think you'll find I speak the Queen's English as well as the lady herself."

"Good. No more of this 'oui' business then."

"As you wish."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his conversation partner. He had an annoying expression on his face like he knew something Arthur didn't. He wanted to hate the Frenchman, but it was difficult when he smelt like a mix of roses and pure man. Arthur didn't get beer goggles, he got beer nostrils; if someone smelt good, there was no stopping him. He suddenly thought he might know where he'd met Antonio before...

"Arthur," Francis shifted in his seat and uncrossed his legs. Arthur couldn't stop his eyes flicking down to check him out. "I would very much like to have dinner with you sometime, if that sounds good to you."

Arthur snorted, then immediately wished he hadn't. "Why the bloody fuck would I want to do that, frog?"

Francis smirked at him and leaned closer. Arthur could feel his breath brush his cheek. "Are you scared Arthur?" he said quietly "scared you might enjoy yourself? Scared I might make you smile?"

Arthur knew then his fate was sealed. He could never turn down a challenge.

...

Man, ff messes with my format! Grrr.

Le FrUK has begun!

For anyone who doesn't know, a Jägerbomb is a drink : a shot of Jägermeister dropped in some energy drink.

I feel like no one is reading this, but I'm having a nice time writing it anyways.


	4. 4 Red Wine

It was about two in the afternoon on one of those deceptively cold days: ones that look bright and sunny outside, the kind of day you get blinded by light bouncing off cars and puddles. But in actuality, it's freezing, and what should have been early morning mist and frost refuse to budge.

Arthur was blissfully unaware of all goings-on on the other side of his curtains, because he was still in bed, asleep. Or he was, until his phone buzzed on the bedside table and jolted him awake.

"What kind of bastard sends texts at this time of..."

He caught sight of his clock. 2:09 in the afternoon. Whatever, whoever it was was still going to get a bollocking if he had anything to do with it. Muttering angrily under his breath, he unlocked his phone.

It was a text message. From Alfred.

"Hey Arthur, it's been a long time. Fancy a coffee and a catch up?

Tomorrow morning, usual place ;)

Alfred xxx"

Ah.

In all honesty, he really didn't want to. It was uncomfortable enough to hear about Alfred and his happy little husband over email and the phone, never mind face to face. But it was one of those unwritten rules: when communicating with an ex-partner, you mustn't make it look like you're bitter about the whole thing. And Arthur was a sucker for social conventions.

He tapped out a quick "yes" before dragging himself up for a much needed shower. Or perhaps a long bath and a trashy novel.

...X...

A few hours and several chapters of 'Eat Pray Love' (What? It has its manly points... maybe) later, he was on the bus into town to meet the Frenchman for their promised date, and already regretting it. He was dreading seeing Alfred tomorrow, and was not in the mood to share food with a flirtatious frog with dodgy facial hair. But he'd promised. And a drunken promise was still a promise, unless it was made to Gilbert.

The Italian restaurant (one of Arthur's conditions of the date was that he would not have to endure French cooking) was full of climbing plants and dimly lit with candles and fairy lights. He was shown to a small round table in the corner, where Francis was waiting, seemingly ever-present glass of red in his hand.

"Salut."

Arthur glared at him. "I believe you mean 'hello.'"

Francis just smiled at him. "Hello."

"Better."

Francis stood to pull out Arthur's chair for him. "You look lovely this evening."

"Umm... thanks." Said Arthur quietly as he sat down. He didn't think anyone had ever said that to him before...

"So," said Francis, pouring Arthur a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, "You came."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I got the impression you agreed to this date just to shut me up."

"Oh really?" Arthur rolled his eyes. "I have no idea what would give you that impression."

"Of course," Francis continued, "That would be ridiculous. There's not a soul on this earth who wouldn't want a date with this gorgeousness, non?"

"Honestly." Arthur snatched his glass of wine as soon as Francis finished pouring. "I thought the Jäger had messed with my memory last night, but it turns out I remembered rightly: you ARE an egotistic bastard."

"And you are very rude. Now, what are you going to order?" He handed Arthur a menu.

"Ughh, I don't know." He scanned the menu. "It looks like the only options are pasta or pasta."

"You should get pasta!"

Arthur jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Everybody likes pasta. And there's so many different kinds! You could get spaghetti, or ravioli, or tortellini, or tricolore, I like that one because it has a lot of colours – "

"Feliciano, please stop it." Gilbert's brother appeared behind the enthusiastic Italian. "We've talked about this before. People don't always like it."

"Si Ludwig, I know, but these aren't just any people, they're Gilbert's friends."

"Yes. I know." Ludwig gave the pair of them the look he reserved especially for anyone his brother called 'friend.' "Come on Feliciano, our table's ready." He took his partner by the hand, and nodded a curt goodbye to Arthur and Francis.

"Okay!" Feliciano turned to follow Ludwig. "I'm glad you two are here. You looked so good together the other night."

"Feliciano!"

"Coming Ludwig! Ciao." He gave a brief wave and followed his boyfriend.

"Well," said Francis, breaking the slightly awkward silence that followed Feliciano's remark, "We have to date each other now."

"What?" Arthur flipped his menu shut, irritated. "What the bloody hell gives you that idea?"

"Feli said we looked good together." He shrugged. "He's never wrong about these things. And I'm determined to prove him right."

"Yes, well." Arthur mumbled. "Just hurry up and order something would you? I don't want to be here all night."

"In that case I had better hurry up."

"Hurry up with what?"

"Showing you why you should be with me."

...X...

Two hours later, Francis was walking Arthur home. The rain had held off, and the sky was still clear: cold and crisp and dotted with stars. The occasional car would zip past them, but other than that the only sound was the bare trees creaking, and their footsteps on the empty pavement.

Arthur wasn't sure what to say. The last two hours with the Frenchman had been... Oh damn, Arthur couldn't deny it, he was charming. He was constantly offering subtle compliments, he was attentive, and asked Arthur questions about him that seemed curious, but not invasive. It had been... Well it certainly beat two hours of watching Gilbert and Mathias trying to play beer-pong, put it that way.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, and snuck a sideways glance at Francis. He was looking straight ahead, smiling a little, his breath coming out in little misty puffs as they walked up hill. He noticed Arthur looking at him and his smile grew. Embarrassed, Arthur snapped his eyes back onto the blank pavement.

He sort of liked Francis. Alright, he sort of liked him quite a lot. But he'd been single for a long time; he wasn't sure he knew how to be a boyfriend anymore. He wasn't sure he ever knew how in the first place.

They reached Arthur's front door. Francis smiled (did the man ever stop!) as Arthur searched his pockets for his elusive keys.

"Thank you Arthur."

"Whatever for?"

"For coming to dinner with me. And for not punching me when I suggested you shape your eyebrows a little."

Arthur found his keys and slid them into the lock. "I suppose it could have been worse."

Francis laughed. "D'accord. So, can I perhaps see you again?"

Arthur turned to look at him. They were close; he could feel Francis' breath on his face. He could smell wine, but he couldn't tell if it was on his own breath or Francis'. He pressed a quick kiss to Francis' cheek.

"Don't push your luck, Frog."

...

That was a massively long gap between updates. I am a bad person. I think the problem is I get too excited and want to write about all the characters at the same time and then it gets hard to focus... Anywho, I have up to chapter seven mentally written, so I'll get it done ASAP. I reckon it'll end up ten chapters-ish, maybe less.


	5. 5 Vodka and Coke

Just so you know, this chapter pretty much consists of past USUK, and present RusAme. In case anyone hates those pairings or whatever

...

The 'usual place' where Alfred and Arthur used to meet was a small, American-style diner on the edge of town. It was Alfred's choice. They served hideous tea, but Arthur had always made the best of it, for him. It seemed quite unfair that they were no longer together, yet there Arthur was, once more, stirring sugar into tea the colour of wet cardboard, staring at the black coffee across the greasy table ready for Alfred's arrival.

Seventeen minutes after their agreed time (his time-keeping had obviously improved since they dated) Alfred burst into the diner, and marched over to Arthur.

"Artie! It's great to see you."

He pulled Arthur into a hug – the awkward knocking of limbs that happens when one person is sitting and one standing.

"I can't believe we left it this long. Crazy, right?" He sat at the table, opposite Arthur.

"Yes." Arthur sipped his tea and winced. "I got you a coffee."

"Thanks, man. Where's the sugar..." He dug around in the little pot on the table and pulled out several packets of chemically refined white sugar.

Watching Alfred's long, calloused fingers tear open the little paper packets, Arthur was taken back to the six month stint of sex they had called dating: they had only ever stopped for boring things like food and work, and woke up each morning aching but happy, holding each other in a room that smelt like sleep and warm bodies. Then Alfred would smile and slap his arse, and it would start all over again. He really was happy, with this beautiful, brash American; all sunshine, supersizing and sports teams, until the time came when Arthur realised Alfred was just... such hard work.

"So Arthur," Alfred brought him back to reality. He was good at that. "Got a decent man in your bed?"

Arthur nearly spat out his disgusting tea. "What? We haven't spoken face to face for nearly three years and that's the first thing you think of to say?"

Alfred waved his protests aside. "We may as well get the awkward questions out of the way. And I wanna know. Really."

"Oh for fuckssake Alfred."

"Language."

"You really haven't changed, have you?"

"Nope." And he winked. Stupid, beautiful, brash American.

"Fine." Arthur folded his arms. "No. There's no one."

"Aww, that sucks."

"I don't want your pity Alfred. I'm quite happy single." Liar. "Anyway, tell me about yours. I know you've told me all about him over e-mail, but – "

"Oh fuck me, he is a GOD!"

A woman with two small children at the next table glared at them.

"Is that so?"

"Hell yeah. He's got these shoulders as wide as – as – I dunno but they're freaking wide. And these massive arms, and his thighs, oh God his thighs, and he's got a amazing nose – a fucking majestic nose – and his skin, shit his skin's like one of those guys carved from stone, and his voice is like a freaking bear, but one that's gunna fuck you not eat you, and then there's his di – "

"Alright! Alright Alfred I get the idea." The woman with the children was attempting to cover their ears. "Are you saying this thing you have with him is all about sex?"

"Pfft, no! I love the bastard."

"Oh."

"That he happens to sex on legs is a bonus."

"I see."

"I mean..." Alfred started ripping up the empty sugar packets. "He treats me like... I dunno, like I'm royalty or something. And he's so careful. Sometimes it's like he thinks I'm made of glass... unless I tell him I want him good and rough and then he – "

"Alfred – "

"Right, right. If somebody said to me that I could never fuck him, or kiss him, or even speak to him again, and the only thing I'm allowed to do is hold his hand, that would be enough. Just to feel him, right there, with me." He grinned at Arthur. "And I think that would be enough for him too."

"Wow." Arthur pushed away the remainder of his cold tea. "Well, I suppose you'd better hold on to him then, hadn't you."

"Don't worry Artie, I plan to." Alfred smiled again, before something outside caught his attention. "Speak of the devil..." He stood up as a huge man, built like a brick shit-house, wearing a long coat and scarf came into the diner. "Hey babe." He flung his arms around the giant's neck, and kissed him fiercely. Arthur could practically see their tongues wrestling. And so could the woman at the next table, if the way she was trying to cover her kids' eyes was anything to go by.

After a couple of minutes, Arthur was starting to worry Alfred was going to get crushed to death by his boyfriend's massive arms, or that one of them would pass out from lack of oxygen.

Eventually, they broke apart. Alfred seemed to suddenly remember Arthur was still there.

"Oh yeah, Artie, this is Ivan. Ivan Braginski."

Ivan Braginski waved. "Hello."

Oh bloody fuck he was Russian. And there was something slightly off about that smile...

"Hello..."

"Artie, you don't mind if we cut this short do you? I promised Ivan I'd show him round before we head back home."

"No, of course not. You two carry on." He smiled weakly.

"Great! Well, it was good to see you Arthur. Let's not leave it so long next time, huh?"

"No. Goodbye then."

Alfred waved, and his massive Russian kept smiling his eerie smile. The shop bell chimed, and they were out the door.

They were holding hands...

Arthur hunted around in the pockets of his coat for his mobile phone, and quickly scrolled down to the number he wanted.

Ring ring, ring ring...

"Hello? Hello Francis. Yes it's Arthur. I was just wondering, are you busy this evening?"

...

I apologise for this short and pretty irrelevant chapter. I just really wanted to write an RusAme chapter called Vodka and Coke (see what I did there ;) .) Anyway, I guess it's a bit of a filler, but hopefully it helps shape up Arthur's character and past a bit, or whatever. Jeez Alfred is fun to write XD

Next chapter: 'Sex on the Beach'. Containing FrUK, Spamano, PruCan.


	6. 6 Sex on the Beach

Arthur was very busy in his office pretending to do work. Half finished plans for a housing estate were spread across his desk with empty mugs and biscuit crumbs. He turned the page of David Foster Wallace's '_Brief Interviews with Hideous Men'_. Bloody wonderful book. His literary musing was interrupted by the door swinging open.

"Oi. Arthur."

"Fuck off Gil."

"It's my office too."

"And? I'm busy."

"Pfft yeah, run off your feet."

"Where's idiot number two?"

"Guess you mean Mathias. Does that make me number one?"

"Why not."

"Cool. I dunno, maybe doing his boyfriend against his desk."

A voice drifted through the paper thin office walls: "He's not my boyfriend!"

The door swung open again to reveal a slim man with a blue shirt and a scowl on his face at a level that even Arthur could never dream of achieving. "I am NOT his boyfriend."

"Morning, sir."

"Aleks." Gilbert saluted.

Their boss crossed his arms and frowned deeper. "That would be SIR to you, fuckwit. Get back to work."

He slammed the door behind him on his way out, making the standard-issue office clock rattle on the wall.

Gilbert whistled. "He enjoys working here almost as much as you do Arthur."

"Piss off."

His friend ignored him, and sat in the chair on the other side of the desk, where he proceeded to flick bent staples at Arthur.

"I can't make it to the pub later." A staple hit Arthur's forehead. "I'm going to that bar on the beach with Francis and Toni."

"Oh God." Arthur flipped '_Brief Interviews'_ shut. "You're going too? The Frog mentioned some other people were going to be there, but I didn't know other people meant you."

Gilbert smirked at him. "'Francis said?' Been talking to old Frenchie have we?"

Arthur flung his book at him. "Fuck off."

"So that means yes then."

Arthur regretted throwing the book. If he still had it, he would have had something to hide his reddening face behind.

...X...

A few hours later, and the cold, watery sun was low in the sky as Gilbert pulled up outside the bar. How Gilbert had persuaded Ludwig to let him borrow his car was a mystery to Arthur. Actually, no it wasn't – Gilbert probably hadn't asked before taking the keys from the dish in the kitchen. They got out of the (impossibly clean) car, and Arthur felt the ocean air whip at his face, breathing in the salty tang that always made him feel at home. English. British. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

"C'mon Captain Kirkland." Gilbert grabbed his elbow. "I need a drink."

Inside, the beach bar was clean and simple: rough floorboards and driftwood sculptures, smooth tabletops and glass. The others were waiting for them on the balcony outside, lit with two fat orange lamps and most of it taken up by a table tennis table. Francis turned and smiled when he saw them.

"Bonsoir Gilbert. Arthur." He kissed the latter's cheek. Arthur mumbled an incoherent protest and pushed him away. Only gently though.

"You remember Antonio of course." He gestured to the man with dark hair and a wide, serene smile who Gilbert had just slapped on the shoulder in greeting. "And his... his... Lovino." And to the grumpy Italian giving Gilbert the most evil glare Arthur had ever seen. Strange how so many people he knew were so skilled at looking pissed off... "And this," Francis pulled him over to a small table with a large jug of something pinky-yellow and sickly looking on it, "Is my cousin: Matthieu."

A young man who looked staggeringly like Francis offered Arthur a shy smile."Hello."

How had Arthur not noticed him there before? "Nice to meet you."

"Come, let's get you a drink." Francis poured out a glass of the sugary cocktail and handed it to Arthur.

"What the bloody hell is this?" He sniffed it.

"Don't tell me you've never had sex on the beach before?"

"What!"

Francis laughed softly. "It's the name of the cocktail. Sex on the Beach."

"Oh, right." Arthur took a sip; a rush of pineapple, sugar, and the faintest trace of alcohol hit his tongue.

Francis laughed at his grimace. Arthur punched his arm.

"Evening Franny." Gilbert leant on his friend's shoulder. "Hello..." He noticed Matthieu, and held out his hand. "Guten Abend. I'm Gilbert, but you can call me awesome."

"Gilbert, you are truly disgusting."

If the look on Matthieu's face was anything to go by, he disagreed.

"We'll leave them to it, shall we?" Francis whispered in Arthur's ear, and led him to the edge of the balcony. They leant on the railings, sipping their drinks and listening to waves rush at the shore.

It was Francis who broke the silence. "You like the sea."

"What? Oh, yes. How did you know?"

"My hand has been resting on your backside for the last seven minutes and you haven't noticed."

"Argh!" Arthur jumped and spilt the dregs of the sugary hell he'd been drinking down his shirt. "Get off you sneaking pervert."

Francis smiled, and removed his hand. "It wasn't just that. You were smiling."

"Oh. Yes, I like the sea. It's just so... big." He waited for Francis' laugh. It didn't come. "Endless. If you stare at the horizon long enough, it's like you're there. Like I could jump into the waves and just keep going, on and on, getting nowhere. Just being in the sea. With the sea. And it joins us all. People say the sea, water, separates places, but I think it joins us all together. The world is not places kept apart by water; its water holding places together." He stopped talking, cleared his throat to hide his embarrassment. "Sorry. I was talking rubbish."

"Not at all." Said Francis. "Even if you were talking rubbish, I wouldn't mind. You have a very engaging voice."

"Now you're the one talking bollocks."

"Arthur."

"Yes?" He turned to look at Francis. "What?"

Arthur had always prided himself on being able to read people well enough to know when they were about to kiss him. But he was forgetting that most of his sexual partners, like Gilbert and Alfred, were loud and brash, and the word 'subtle' just didn't register. Either that, or he was the one who initiated it anyway.

Which is why what Francis did next caught him by surprise.

One hand rested on the balcony, the other rested on the back of Arthur's neck, fingertips curling in the hair of his nape. Then he was closer; Arthur could feel Francis' chest against his, their hipbones together, Francis' leg on the inside of his thigh, their toes touching, Francis standing a little on Arthur's foot. Their faces were close, and although not yet touching, Arthur didn't think he'd ever felt physically closer to anyone. As cliché as it was (the literary part of his brain was kicking itself) he could feel the other's breath on his lips. He could smell the fruity cocktail, Francis' sweet aftershave and the ever-present gritty salt of the sea. And their mouths were together, moving together, sliding, not fighting, but agreeing this was the best this they could be doing. Mouths were no longer for talking, eating, breathing: they were for kissing. Arthur tasted artificial pineapple, and something unfamiliar he assumed was Francis. Then they eased apart, and normality forced itself back onto them, in the form of table tennis.

"Oi, you bastard cheating Spaniard, that was my point!"

"Ahh... I think you may be wrong."

"What! I'm not wrong. Ever."

"But I really think it was mine. Lovi, what do you think?"

"Don't drag me into this, bastard."

"I bet Mattie knows it was my point. Right Mattie?"

"Hey, where'd he go?"

"I'm right here."

"Oh, right. Well, whose point do you think it was?"

"Yeah, me or Tomato Fernandez Tomatohead?"

"..."

"Fine, let's go again."

"Take that!"

"Huuh!"

"Ahh!"

"Uuugh!"

"Hnn!"

"Would you two stop with the fucking tennis sex noises!"

"..."

"Sorry, my love."

"Pffft man up. That was my point too, by the way."

After a minute spent in slight shock at their friends' skewed interpretation of the rules of the game, Arthur felt a warm hand take his. He turned to Francis to see him smiling a little, and watching his two friends try to best each other at the noble sport of table tennis. He squeezed the hand in his, and rested his head on Francis' shoulder; behind them, the sea murmured its approval.

...

Well, that was the longest kiss description I've ever written XD

Thanks for sticking with me while I ramble my ass off.


	7. 7 Water Cooler

"I'm not coming out later."

"Alright." Arthur went to sip his tea, and realised his cup was empty. Life's a bitch. He set it back down with a thunk on top of the pile of papers he was trying to ignore, as opposed to the thick DeLillo novel beside them. "Let's pretend I care for a moment," he folded his arms, "why would that be, Gilbert?"

Gilbert flashed his much-practised, toothiest smile. "I got a date."

"What?" Mathias dropped his pen, pushed away the floor plan for a barn conversion. "A date with _who?_ And since when do you 'date?' I thought you only did one night stands and the occasional roll in the hay with Arthur."

"Oi," Arthur snapped, "Quite enough of that, thank you."

"Yep, a proper date." Gilbert grinned again and sat on Arthur's desk, putting an effective end to any work Arthur was doing. "With Matthew."

"Who?"

"Francis' cousin?" Arthur had completely forgotten about him.

"Yes, Francis' cousin."

"But he hardly spoke to you the other night."

"He's just shy." Gilbert waved away Arthur's doubts. "I asked him if he'd like to get a drink with me sometime – you and Franny were too busy sucking face – and he said yeah."

"I – what – we were not sucking face!" said Arthur hotly, "And since when do you like this Matthew so much anyway? You haven't shut up about that posh git – what was his name?"

"Roderich." Interjected Mathias.

"Yes, Roderich – for the last month and a half. What happened with him?"

"All in the past Arthur, all in the past."

"God, you're ridiculous."

"Thank you."

"You're all talk Gil. You haven't had a relationship for years." Underneath the bravado, and drunken fucks with Arthur, Gilbert was a bit of a prude. He hid it well.

"Yeah well, time for a change." He cleared his throat. "Ugh, I'm thirsty."

"I'll go grab us some water." Mathias shot up from his chair, slipping his phone into his pocket.

"Errr OK. Thanks." Arthur would have preferred something hot, but that would involve getting out of his chair, and some things are just not worth it. The ever unstable clock shook on the wall when Mathias slammed the door behind him. Arthur closed his eyes, and leant back in his chair, listening to the silence.

"Speaking of Francis..."

All good things come to an end.

"What about him, Gilbert?" Arthur ground out through his teeth.

"You kissed him."

"He kissed me."

"Pfft, it's all the same. Either way, you guys exchanged saliva."

Arthur rubbed his temples. "Gilbert, do you really have to be so unpleasant?"

"Yes. Do you like him?"

"I – I don't really know what I –"

"You want in his pants? Because he's pretty easy most of the time."

"For fuckssake Gilbert –"

"Or does that put you off? OK, umm... he's pretty into all that romantic stuff, you know, roses, champagne, all that shit."

"You have the most wonderful way with words, you know." Arthur stacked his neglected papers, and moved them aside before Gilbert could sit on them.

"Come on Arthur, can't you just – "

"I like him, alright!" Arthur bristled, and looked at the beige carpet to avoid the grin he knew would be sliding on to his friend's face. "I like him. I just – don't know what to do about it yet, OK?"

Gilbert smiled; a soft, soppy kind of smile that made him look like his brother when he was with Feli. "Aww, don't worry Artie, your squishy little secret's safe with me."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Thanks, bastard." He picked up his novel and eased out the train ticket he was using as a bookmark.

Halfway through the first sentence, a muffled shout came from the room next door: their boss' office. Arthur and Gilbert exchanged looks. Aleks was always exceptionally quiet, unless he was with a certain person... A swish and a thump of objects hitting the floor came through the thin walls. Gilbert looked like Christmas had come early as he hopped off Arthur's desk and pressed his ear against the adjoining wall.

"Gilbert!" Arthur hissed. "The fuck are you doing?"

Gilbert said nothing, but pressed a finger to his smiling mouth and motioned for Arthur to join him. Curious, Arthur set aside his book (again) and went over, kneeling beside Gilbert and pressing his ear to the badly papered wall. The voices they heard where slightly deadened, but familiar.

"Mathias, why on earth did you feel the need to push all my possessions off my desk?"

"So I can pin you down on it and feel you up?"

"Is that an answer or a question?"

"An answer?"

"Either way, it's not going to happen. Get the hell out of my office, dumbass."

"Oh come on! Every time I try to get close to you send me packing. Please?"

A snort of laughter. "That would be because every time you 'try to get close to me' we're at work you idiot. If you asked me on a date like a normal person instead of molesting me by the water cooler, maybe I'd say yes."

"Hey wait, did you just ask me out?"

"No, I believe I told you to ask me out."

"Oh. Umm, Aleks, would you like to go out for dinner with me?"

"..."

"Oh come on, don't leave me hanging."

"..."

"And you tell me I'm immature! If you asked me something important like this and I gave you the silent mmph –!"

Mathias was cut off mid-sentence. Arthur looked at Gilbert, concerned, but his friend merely smirked, and mouthed "be patient." They pressed their ears back to the wall. More silence, then a sudden thump, which did nothing to squash Arthur's fear that Aleks had murdered Mathias. But his worries took on an entirely different nature when a throaty moan drifted through the wall, followed by a soft slap.

"Shut up idiot. You know these walls are fucking thin."

"You should have thought of that before you pushed me against it then."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Uuuuuugghhhh."

More moaning and whining from Mathias. Arthur didn't know where to look – he knew he was blushing, and he knew Gilbert would be smirking at him; he didn't want to do anything his friend could interpret as an invitation. Despite Gilbert's excitement over his date, Arthur wouldn't put it past him to make a spontaneous move on him right there in the office. They'd done it before. He chanced it, and met Gilbert's eye. He was in luck; Gilbert was laughing, hand over his mouth to silence himself.

Another, louder thump.

"Get out."

"What? Why?"

"We are not going to fuck in my office."

"What? But we were kissing, and then you – "

"I know full well what I was doing, idiot."

"... Then why can't we – "

"Eugh, do you have no sense of decency? Just get out, I don't want to talk about this now."

"Aleks, I – "

"Get out!"

"Fine!"

Loud footsteps and a door slamming shut as Mathias left Aleks' office.

"Oh fuck."

Gilbert and Arthur pushed themselves up from the floor and scrabbled back to their desks, arranging themselves in what they hoped were casual positions; Arthur in his chair, Gil sprawling on the desk. Mathias stormed back into the office, and sat down heavily, glaring at the door. A dense silence sat in the room that nobody seemed ready to break. Just as the tension was beginning to reach an uncomfortable level, Gilbert opened his mouth.

"So Mathias, how's your boyfriend?"

Mathias snapped his head up to face Gilbert, and opened his mouth to retort. Before he could, a fierce shout came from the office next door:

"I'M NOT HIS BOYFRIEND!"

...X...

Arthur couldn't get to sleep. This didn't happen to him often, but when it did it really pissed him off. There was a small pile of books next to his bed. As much as he enjoyed, even loved escaping to another place through his literature, sometimes it just wasn't enough. Sometimes becoming a character in a novel just reminded him of all things he didn't have. He could be reading about a couple unable to have children, or another horrible family crisis, and still feel jealous because at least they had each other. He could read about someone successful, and determined, and realise how little he had achieved himself. And how much he could achieve, if he stopped reading books and drinking tea, and actually tried instead of moping. It was with this in mind that he reached for his phone, and sent a text at 3:36am to a certain man whose soft smile and the surreal kiss they had shared by the sea refused to leave his thoughts.

_Arthur: Hello. I was wondering if you're free to meet up again. If you're not too busy, that is. Thanks. Arthur x_

In all honesty, he wasn't expecting a reply, and was already regretting sending the text in the first place. But his phone buzzed only a few minutes later.

_Francis: I would very much like that. What did you have in mind? Xxx_

_Arthur: Perhaps I could cook for you. Unless you'd rather go out somewhere. Arthur x_

_Francis: That sounds wonderful. Are you free tomorrow? Xxx_

_Arthur: Yes. 7 o'clock any good? Arthur x_

_Francis: Tres bien. I'll see you then xxx_

_Arthur: Goodnight xxx_

_Francis: 3_

...

AN: Oh my gosh. Sorry there was such a long gap between chapters, I had a lot of shiz to take care of. But university has finished now, and I'm free to fangirl to my heart's content

Yeah, there's not a lot of FrUK this chapter, sorry. Also, screw you formatting!

There will probs be one more chapter, and it will contain some sort of FrUK fluffiness and sexytiems.

I'm also working on a Germany/Spain oneshot. It makes sense, trust me.


	8. 8 I'll Have What You're Having

Having slept badly the night before, Arthur spent most of the morning wandering around the house, mug of tea in hand and thick jumper over his shoulders, with the uncomfortable feeling he was meant to be doing something. Unable to settle, he'd pull a book from a shelf at random, running his finger along the spine, picking out a few sentences, and putting it back. It wasn't until one in the afternoon when he pulled a book from the shelf and read the publishing details, and he saw the words 'Translated from the French by...' that he remembered. Flinging the book on the sofa, he pulled his phone from his pocket and flicked through his messages. Oh shit. Francis. He had a date.

He then spent most of the afternoon in a similar way to the morning: pulling books off the shelves and flicking through them, although now he wasn't paying attention to the words at all. He was fidgety, and every so often felt a small wave of nerves clench his stomach. Eventually he had enough of this, told himself off for being such a girl, and went to have a long, hot bath.

...X...

At twenty past seven, after sitting on the sofa wringing his hands and muttering random curse words for half an hour, Arthur finally heard a knock. He swung open the door, nervous (through he'd never show it) and a little irritated, and there he was. Francis: the man he'd only met three times and was feeling far too attached to for his own comfort, was standing outside, framed by the climbing roses around his doorway like the cover of a Mills and Boon.

"Salut."

"Err, hello." Panicking, Arthur stuck out his hand.

Francis stared at it for a few seconds, before realising that yes, they were in fact about to begin their third date with a formal handshake. He shook it, and smiled at Arthur's awkwardness.

"So, yes." Arthur fumbled with his words as he stood aside to let the man in. "Please, come in."

"Merci." Instead of going into the house, Francis stopped beside Arthur, and lightly kissed both his cheeks, before instinctively making his way to the kitchen without a second glance. Arthur stood for a moment, floundering in his own social awkwardness, before slamming the door shut and going to join Francis.

...X...

As promised, after Francis poured them each a small glass of wine, Arthur began to dig out his battered pots and pans and various ingredients from the fridge. After about ten minutes of watching him, Francis downed the rest of his wine for courage and stepped in before Arthur could accidentally slice off his own fingers, or try to cook the pasta in the microwave. This was met with a small show of anger, and threats to curse his family, but after Francis poured him another glass of wine (they were getting through it pretty quickly) Arthur accepted his new role as sous chef without too much fuss. He was unnerved to discover that each time their fingers brushed while they worked, or their eyes briefly fixed on one another, he felt as though they had been doing this for years. And if it wasn't for the little jolt of excitement somewhere near his stomach each time it happened, he could easily believe they had been.

...X...

Dinner passed in a blur of well-meaning insults and double-entendres that Arthur wasn't sure he understood. He was starting to get sick of this; they were dancing around each other, both being clear what they wanted but neither making the first move. Or rather, Francis was dancing. Arthur felt more like he was stumbling through the steps on pure luck, and tripping every time Francis looked at him.

"You know, Arthur, you really should get some new plates, these have to be – what? A good ten years old, my mother used to have some like them. Or she would have, if they weren't so hideous. I can help you pick some, if you – "

"Francis?"

"Hmm?" Francis paused in his digging through Arthur's crockery and looked at him. "Yes?"

And Arthur kissed him.

Well, kiss was the closest word to describe it anyway. He pressed his closed mouth against Francis', feeling his own dry lips against the other's disturbingly soft ones, tense all over, waiting for Francis to jerk back and ask him what the hell he was doing. To be honest, he wasn't really sure either. All he knew was he didn't want this man to leave. Somehow, this beautiful bastard had got into his head. He did have a weakness for beautiful bastards.

For a moment, Francis remained still, as rigid as Arthur.

_Please don't push me away..._

Then Arthur felt Francis laugh softly, in the back of his throat, and one hand came to rest on Arthur's waist, the other on his neck. He kissed him back, properly, sliding his tongue into Arthur's mouth before he even had time to get flustered about it, and a scratch of stubble met his chin. Francis tasted of the red wine he'd brought over; rich and a little bitter. But this wasn't the main thing on Arthur's mind as he felt the small of his back meet the kitchen counter, and thumbs press into his hipbones. He pulled his head sharply away.

"We are not doing this in the kitchen."

"Doing what?" Francis asked, although the quirk of his lips suggested he knew _exactly _what Arthur meant.

"Come on." Arthur gripped Francis' wrist and pulled him into the living room, pushing him, perhaps a little roughly, on the sofa. He stood looking down at Francis, who seemed bemused but generally pleased with the direction this was going. He felt his already heated face get warmer, and tried to squash any of the doubts he had about this from his mind. Time to step up. Make a decision, for once.

He sat on Francis' lap, one knee resting on the sofa each side of Francis' thighs, and, popping open the first few buttons of the other's shirt, began to kiss and nip at his neck. He smelt like roses, and something Arthur still couldn't quite put his finger on, like the first time they met.

"Arthur." Francis voice seemed too loud, but far away at the same time. "Arthur."

"Shut up." He mumbled against Francis' neck. "I'm being impulsive."

Francis laughed again, that funny, throaty little laugh he did earlier that made his Adam's apple jump. "I'm always up for impulsivity cher, but are you sure you want this?" He rubbed small circles into Arthur's shoulder. "You look like you want to slap me half the time."

Arthur snorted and sat up to look Francis in the face. "What's romance without a little passion?" He made a face. "Eurgh, that sounded like something _you_ would say."

"Arthur, I'm serious."

"So am I." He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly a little uncomfortable. "I just take a bit of time to warm up to people, OK? It took me four years before I felt comfortable putting Gilbert's phone number down as 'friend' in my contacts list. It's a bloody miracle I invited you over to be honest. I'd usually sit and stew until _you_ called _me_."

"You're so much more polite when you're nervous. It's cute."

"Fuck off am I 'cute.' Now, are you going to kiss me again, or not? I haven't got all day."

Francis smirked. "Right away sir." He brought his lips to Arthur's, slow but firm, until Arthur got impatient and sped things up, sucking Francis' bottom lip and rolling his hips a little. _Sir..._ He could get used to that.

He turned his attention back to Francis' neck, dotting it with little dry kisses, barely brushing the skin, before latching onto his collar bone and sucking. Not too hard though, didn't want to scare him off. Though from the little he knew about Francis, he doubted there was much that could scare him off as far as bedroom antics were concerned. Besides, judging from the moan that just slipped from Francis' lips, he was enjoying it.

Arthur undid Francis' trousers as quickly as he could – which wasn't easy, they were at an awkward angle – and palmed him through his underwear, earning him another appreciative moan. A few moments later he felt Francis' hands at his own crotch, doing nothing too elaborate, just rubbing rhythmically through the fabric of his trousers. Arthur felt a twinge of apprehension; when was the last time he'd actually been with someone? Other than half-remembered, half-hearted fucks with Gilbert. Eugh, he didn't want to think about his friend right now. The sound of Francis pulling the zip on his trousers effectively washed any past sexual encounters from his mind. Francis didn't hang around; he slipped his hand straight inside Arthur's underwear, and getting a loud gasp/growl in response. Francis chuckled. Damn that stupid little laugh.

"Don't think you've won yet, frog."

"Hmm? Won what?"

Arthur said nothing, but smirked, and eased himself off the other's lap to kneel on the floor. Never once breaking eye-contact, he lowered his face to Francis' groin, briefly running his lips along his thigh, before resting them on his underwear, just above his cock. Seeing Francis' eyes glaze over, then shut in pleasure, Arthur decided he'd won that battle, and moved on to the next. He pulled Francis' cock from his underwear, gently running his hands over it, before swiping his tongue along it in one smooth motion from base to tip. He played like this for several minutes, well aware he was teasing, until Francis could take it no more and dragged him back onto his lap and into a harsh kiss, their teeth knocking and little.

"Arthur, we need to do this." Kiss. "Now."

"No complaints here." Kiss. "Turn over."

Francis pulled away. "What?"

"Turn over, for fuckssake."

"No cher, I don't bottom." He stated this as simply as one would tell a child the sky is blue.

"Excuse me?" Arthur fumbled for a decent comeback. He didn't feel comfortable giving himself so completely so quickly. "Well, I'm not going to."

"Well then, what do you suggest we do, hmm?" He rolled his hips a little, nudging Arthur's bulge.

"I – we – I don't – Oh, fuck it." Arthur freed his erection from his underwear and pressed himself to Francis, hissing when their cocks rubbed. God, it had been so long since he'd done this sober. Fuck, too long. He took them both together in his hand and began to pump. Francis, recovering from the pleasant shock of another cock against his, realised what he was doing, and added his own hand alongside Arthur's, the other reaching up to his chest. Arthur moaned loudly, way beyond embarrassment, and brought his lips to Francis' in another messy kiss.

Neither of them lasted much longer, under the intensity of each other's hands and lips. Breathing heavily, Arthur rested his head on Francis' shoulder, the stickiness on their hands and clothes cooling, and feeling decidedly nasty. Francis recovered first, and pressed a gentle kiss to Arthur's cheek.

"That was fun." He ran his hand through Arthur's slightly damp hair. "You're lucky I like you so much Arthur Kirkland, or I'd bitch you for getting cum on my shirt."

Arthur snorted and raised his head. "How do you know that's mine?"

"I didn't say it was. Regardless, it's still your fault it's there."

Arthur tried to think of a smart reply, but his brain capacity wasn't always at its best post orgasm. "Look, I feel sticky and disgusting. I'm going to have a shower. Excuse me." He clambered off the other man and made for the stairs.

"May I join you?"

"Really? Must you?"

"Do you want me to?"

"...Fine. Come on."

Because Arthur did want him to. He wanted Francis in his bathroom, in his bed, in his kitchen (especially in his kitchen, although he wasn't planning on telling him that.) He wanted him to hold his hand on the train, find his place on the page when he lost it, and kiss him even when their lips were chapped and sore in the middle of winter, because it would be worth it. Was he scared? Yes. Was he getting a little ahead of himself? Maybe. But he was a reader, a writer, a story teller. And it was nice to be feeling these things for himself at last, instead of reading about the experiences of other people.

END

...

AN: Wow, took me ages to update, sorry. I got distracted by Cherik feels... sigh.

Anywho, finally finished my first (and maybe last) multi-chapter. What I have learnt: Try to focus on a smaller group of characters, otherwise I just get too excited and want to write about everybody.

Hey, guess what? I'm going to Germany in a few days! I've wanted to go for about a year, so massive excitement for me. This also means I have no laptop for like a week. It scares me how much I think I'll miss it...

Thanks to anybody who read my FrUK-flavoured ramblings


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